


Storm Of the Century

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Down the Chimney 2016, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8853463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: On Christmas Eve, a minor errand becomes incredibly complicated for Illya and Napoleon. Chaos ensues.Merry Christmas, Akane42me!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akane42me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/gifts).



 

The yellow taxicab inched its way along Fifth Avenue, wheels spinning in the freshly fallen snow. The windshield wipers swish-swished a mad counterpoint to the combination of static and Christmas music fading in and out from the cab's radio.

“Brinngg a tawch, Jeanette Isabella,” the cab driver sang, spectacularly off-pitch. “Brinngg a tawch, ta da cray-ay-dall come!”

In the backseat, Illya clutched the cage containing Jellyroll, his Maine Coon Cat, and watched the meter roll another dollar out of his wallet. “This will take forever,” he grumbled. “We should have walked.”

Napoleon's expression spoke volumes. “All the way to Greenwich Village from Upper Manhattan? In a blizzard?”

“In Moscow, this would be considered a light dusting. Hardly worth mentioning.”

Napoleon glanced out the window. “A 'light dusting,' my Aunt Fanny. 'Storm of the Century' is more like it.”

The city's skyscrapers were vague, amorphous shapes, their spires lost amid the swirling, gusting snow. Last-minute Christmas shoppers slid along the icy pavement, clinging to the sides of buildings for support as they struggled to remain upright.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all da way,” the driver sang. “Oh what fun it is to ride –”

Jellyroll yowled in rage, whether at his confinement or the bad singing remained unclear.

Napoleon winced. “Now I know why they call it caterwauling.”

“Jellyroll has had a difficult afternoon,” Illya replied patiently. “He dislikes cages. And car rides. And veterinary appointments.”

Napoleon pulled his hat down over his ears. It didn't help. “I don't know why you had to schedule his annual checkup for Christmas Eve,” he shouted over the din. “You must have known how bad the traffic would be.”

“What would you have me do? Jellyroll was overdue for his shots, and we have been out of the country for the past month, dealing with Japanese vulcanologists, French megalomaniacs, and the denizens of a THRUSH boarding school on the outskirts of Geneva. I did not wish to delay any longer.”

“But why go all the way Uptown? Aren't there any decent veterinarians in your neighborhood?”

“Certainly, but Mrs. Waverly recommended Dr. Mendelbaum in the most glowing terms. They bring their Saint Bernard, Sasquatch, to him.”

“Oh? Well, if the Waverlys vouch for him, I guess he must be pretty good. Twitchy sort of a guy though. Reminded me of an overcaffeinated chipmunk.”

“A bit high-strung,” Illya conceded. “Still, he was thorough, and Jellyroll seemed to like him.”

“I should hope so, at those prices – I've spent less on a suite at the Waldorf.”

“Jellyroll is worth every penny.”

"Says the man who reuses tin foil." The big cat yowled again, a hideous, bone-curdling screech that raised the hairs on Napoleon's neck. "I think he just broke the sound barrier,” he sighed. "Or my eardrum."

“Ya beddah watch out! Ya beddah not cry!” the driver leaned on his horn, provoking a flurry of beeps and honks in response. “'Cause Sanna Claus is comin' – to town!”

The taxi slid across 52nd Street. It was snowing harder now, and the traffic had begun to thin out. Wind buffeted their vehicle, rocking it like a boat riding the swells. The skeleton of an umbrella flew across Fifth Avenue, twirling in and out of their vision like a wild black bird. The cab's meter pinged, and rolled over another dollar. Illya wondered whether his recently depleted bank account would cover the fare.

“Rockin' aroun' da Chriss-muss tree at da –! Hey, whatsa –?! Look out!”

A black van roared out of the cross-street, tires spinning as it swerved toward them. It rammed the side of the cab, sending it careening toward the curb, a deadly projectile of screaming, crunching metal. Illya was flung into the front seat, limbs flopping like a ragdoll, the cage containing Jellyroll torn from his hands. As Napoleon reached out for his friend, his head struck the side window with a terrible crack, and he tasted blood. His last thought before losing consciousness was to wonder what Santa had been doing driving a big black van on Christmas Eve.

*/*/*/

Napoleon came to amid a kaleidoscope of spinning red and blue lights. His head throbbed, little flashes of electricity firing behind his eyelids. He touched his head. His hand came away wet and sticky.

_Blood._

Something was covering his face. He pulled it off. Stared at it, searching for the word.

_Oxygen mask. I'm in an ambulance._

“Easy there, fella,” the paramedic said. “You've got a pretty nasty bump on that noggin.”

Napoleon's vision was blurry; he blinked to clear it. “What...happened...?”

The medic flashed a penlight into his eyes, first one and then the other. “Pupils equal and reactive. Can you tell me your name?”

“Solo. Napoleon...Solo.”

“Very good.” He jotted something down on a clipboard. “Can you tell me your address, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon gave it.

“Excellent. Now then, what's the last thing you remember?”

It was hard to think. “Car...accident...black...van...hit us.”

The medic made another notation. “Okay, Mr. Solo, that's enough questions for now. You're gonna have one hell of a nasty headache in the morning, but all in all, I'd say you got off easy. The cab you were riding in would put an accordion to shame.”

Napoleon glanced out the bay door. A tow truck was winching up the remains of the vehicle, a twisted hunk of charred metal. His throat went dry. “Where's Illya?”

“The guy you were with?” The medic glanced over his shoulder. “Over there, giving a statement to the police. Amazing – not a scratch on him.”

Napoleon scanned the knot of emergency personnel gathered on the pavement. _There!_ Illya, deep in conversation with one of the responding officers. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Was anybody else hurt? Pedestrians? What about the cab driver?”

“Cabbie's got a broken arm, but he'll be okay. They took him over to New York Presbyterian, along with a lady who sprained her ankle getting out of the way.”

“And the driver of the van?”

“Jerk fled the scene. Probably drunk – you know how those office Christmas parties get. I expect the cops'll find him soon enough – the guy was wearing a Santa Claus suit. How far can he get in that?”

 _On Christmas Eve?_ Napoleon suspected he'd blend right in.

At that moment, Illya glanced back, and saw that his partner was awake and talking. He excused himself, and hurried to his side. “How is he?”

“In surprisingly good shape,” the medic replied, affixing a bandage to Napoleon's forehead. “A few scrapes and bruises, but that's to be expected given the force of the crash. I'd recommend he be admitted overnight to monitor for signs of concussion, but otherwise –”

“No hospital,” Napoleon declared firmly.

“Maybe I wasn't clear, Mr. Solo. A concussion's nothing to fool around with. There can be unforeseen, and potentially serious, complications. You don't want to be falling headfirst into your eggnog on Christmas morning now, do you?”

“No hospital.”

The medic exhaled. “Look, I understand. It's Christmas Eve – you want to get home to your family. Who doesn't? But sometimes the symptoms of a concussion don't show up right away.”

“I promise to go straight to the emergency room if I feel the least bit dizzy. Okay, Mr. -” He glanced at the man's nametag. “– Hernandez?”

Hernandez recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He shrugged, and bent to gather up his gear. “Okay, then. Sign the waiver, and you're free to go.”

Napoleon scrawled his signature.

At that moment, the ambulance's radio crackled to life. “Dispatch. We gotta twelve-oh-one, corner of Madison and 42nd. Proceed with siren.”

“No rest for the weary.” Hernandez rapped on the wall of the vehicle. “Let's roll, Rocko.” He handed Napoleon a set of instructions. “Don't hesitate to call the hospital if you experience any of the symptoms on the list.”

Illya slipped an arm under Napoleon's shoulders, and helped him climb down from the vehicle. The ambulance peeled away, sirens wailing.

As the vehicle fishtailed its way down the Avenue, Hernandez watched the image of the two men recede through the tailgate window. He wondered if they knew just how lucky they'd been.

*/*/*/

Illya raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. “You're sure you are alright?"

“Absolutely.” Napoleon waved his arm to prove the point, and winced as his shoulder erupted in pain. “Well, maybe a twinge or two.” He took a step forward, and rocked back on his heels as the sidewalk started to spin.

“That's what I thought.” Illya sighed. “Let's get you home. You can have a long hot shower while I heat up some of that leftover _lo mein_ from lunch.”

Napoleon's stomach rumbled at the thought of food. “You're going to make someone a wonderful mother someday, _tovarisch._ ”

“We Russians are a nurturing people.”

In the past hour, the city had become a ghost town. The wind howled, setting Christmas wreaths swinging wildly on streetlamps and doorways and sending odd bits of red and green garland skittering along the empty streets. A few stragglers hurried toward their destinations, clutching their shopping bags to their chests, armor against the biting wind.

“I doubt we'll find a cab in this weather,” Napoleon said. “Do you think Jellyroll can handle the subway?” He looked around, frowning. “Come to think of it, where is Jellyroll? I haven't heard any ear-piercing yowls recently.”

Illya hesitated. “He is – ” The sentence drifted off, unfinished. “Jellyroll –” he began again. Stopped. His shoulders slumped in misery.

Something was wrong. “Talk to me,” Napoleon said gently. “Oh, God, Illya, he's not –?”

“Not dead, no." A sigh. "At least, I do not think so. Jellyroll's cage was damaged when the van hit us. He must have squeezed through the broken bars and escaped.”

Jellyroll, the six-toed, bloodthirsty, trouser-shredding furball who had captured Illya's heart – lost. Wandering somewhere in the city, alone and cold. In that moment, the senior agent dismissed all thoughts of a hot shower and supper. He rested a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. “Don't worry, _tovarisch._ We'll find him _.”_

“No, Napoleon. _We_ will not.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _I_ will look for Jellyroll. _You_ are going home to rest.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I told you, I feel fine.”

“You are far from 'fine', Napoleon. You can barely stand up straight. You are in no condition to go wandering around Manhattan in the middle of a blizzard.”

“I thought it was 'a light dusting?'”

Illya ignored the jibe. “It will be best if I accompany you to your apartment. Once you are settled, I will come back and look for Jellyroll.”

“All alone? Not a chance.”

“'No strenuous activity for twenty-four hours.' It's on the set of instructions the medic gave you, if you had bothered to read it.”

“Since when do you follow doctors' advice? Aren't you the one always chomping at the bit to get out of Medical?”

Illya exhaled an exasperated breath. “That is different.”

The senior agent folded his arms across his chest. “I'm staying with you, and that's final. Or we could stand out here arguing until we both freeze to death. Your choice.”

Illya stared at him, hard. The seconds ticked by. “You will tell me at once if you are feeling at all unwell?”

Napoleon grinned, and held up two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

With Illya muttering in Russian about 'stubborn Americans,' they set off down Fifth Avenue, scanning the surrounding window ledges, building entryways and back alleys. The storm swirled around them, snowflakes stinging their cheeks and freezing on their lashes. Napoleon shivered inside his cashmere overcoat. 

At the corner of 49th and Fifth, Illya abruptly dropped to the ground. He examined the snow, and the first trace of hope lit his face. “Jellyroll's paw prints. Six toes, see? He crossed the street here.”

The surrounding snowbank was badly trampled. Napoleon crouched down for a closer inspection, doing his best to ignore the wave of dizziness co-opting his eyeballs. “Bootprints – four distinct sets.” Judging by the spacing, the owners had been running. “Don't laugh, but I think somebody's chasing your cat.”

Illya frowned. “Why would somebody be chasing Jellyroll?”

“Depends on what he did to piss them off, I guess.”

They crossed Fifth Avenue, following the trail into Rockefeller Plaza. The annual Christmas tree – a sixty-foot colossus shipped in from a farm in Roxbury, Connecticut – stood guard over the ice skating rink. Its thick branches swayed wildly in the wind, sending ornaments tumbling to the pavement and knocking the treetop star askew.

Napoleon glanced down at the deserted rink. “Aunt Amy used to take my sisters and me ice skating here when we were kids," he said through chattering teeth. "Afterwards, we'd have hot cocoa –”

At that moment, his communicator began to beep. He tugged off his sodden gloves and assembled the device. “Solo here.”

Even remotely, Alexander Waverly's voice held a tinge of outrage. “What the devil have you and Mr. Kuryakin gotten yourselves into _this_ time? First a traffic accident, and now a murder?”

“Sir?”

“Dr. Mendelbaum is dead. Strangled.”

Illya and Napoleon exchanged shocked glances. “He was alive and well when we left him.”

“No longer, I'm afraid. Our coroner estimates he was killed within minutes of your departure.” A pause. “Was there anything unusual about the appointment? Anything suspicious?”

Napoleon thought back. “Dr. Mendelbaum seemed a trifle jumpy. At the time, we assumed he was just a high-strung sort of guy.”

“Hmm, yes. Quite.” The sound of a match being struck.

“I'm confused, sir. The good doctor's death is tragic, certainly, but what's UNCLE's interest? The murder of a civilian is a police matter. Why are we involved?”

A sigh. “Because, Mr. Solo, Dr. Mendelbaum was no civilian. He was one of ours.”

Illya looked up in surprise. “Mendelbaum was an UNCLE agent?”

“Not an agent. A courier, one of our best. His veterinary practice was a clandestine hub for UNCLE New York's information gathering and processing apparatus.”

Napoleon had to hand it to Section III. A veterinary practice was the perfect cover for that sort of operation. Lots of foot traffic in and out, with plenty of turnover. “How did it work?”

“Its beauty was in its simplicity. An agent would bring their pet in for a checkup. During the appointment, Dr. Mendelbaum would insert a message into the animal's leash, or conceal it inside a toy or a bag of food. Sometimes the message would be hidden within the framework of the animal's cage.”

“Or placed inside the bell on a cat's collar?” The pieces of the puzzle abruptly came together. “Sir, could Dr. Mendelbaum have placed a message inside the collar of Illya's cat?”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose if Dr. Mendelbaum suspected he was being watched, he could have placed important information inside that collar in order to keep it from being found. Best bring the cat to Headquarters at once.”

Napoleon hesitated. “There's - uh - a small problem with that.”

“Indeed? You two seem to have had rather a lot of those today.”

“You have no idea.” Napoleon's sigh was eloquent.

“Well? Out with it, Mr. Solo! I don't have all night.”

He winced at the reprimand. “Yes sir. The thing is - Jellyroll's cage broke open when the van hit us, and he - uh - escaped. We're searching for him now. Unfortunately, so are at least four others.”

“THRUSH's finest, I presume.” Waverly's frustration was palpable. “I'm sending all available agents out to assist you. They'll be on foot, so it will be some time before they reach your location.”

“We'll take all the help we can get.”

“Find that cat, Mr. Solo – posthaste. We need to know what Josiah Mendelbaum thought was so important that it was worth dying for.”

“Yes sir. Solo, out.” He disassembled his communicator, and stowed it in the pocket of his overcoat. “A car crash, a missing cat, and now Waverly's on our case. What else could go wrong?”

Illya was staring at something down on the ice rink. “Napoleon -”

The senior agent followed his gaze. His jaw dropped. “What the –?”

Jellyroll scampered across the deserted rink, leaping over the drifting snow with the agility of a dancer executing a _grand jet_ _é._ Four fat Santa Clauses waddled after him, slip-sliding their way across the ice, holding onto one another for dear life. Their backsides were covered in snow from their frequent spills.

A flash of memory prodded Napoleon's consciousness. “Wasn't the driver of the black van wearing a Santa Claus costume?”

“Yes, he was." Illya's eyes narrowed. "So, not an accident. THRUSH."

“Whatever Dr. Mendelbaum gave your cat, they seem to want it very badly." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "But why the Santa Claus suits? It's like a Salvation Army bell ringers' convention down there.”

Illya inserted a fresh clip into his Walther. “Let us go and introduce ourselves to our new friends. Perhaps they will be good enough to clear up the mystery for us.”

They circled the perimeter of the rink, past the display of trumpeting Christmas angels, giant snowflakes and twinkling holiday topiaries. On the ice below, Jellyroll danced and capered, his mop of a tail flicking the air, teeth bared in what looked suspiciously like a grin. Every few yards, the clever cat veered off in a new direction, sending the four Santas tumbling over one another in an absurd chain reaction of epic proportions.

Napoleon tried not to laugh. “Jellyroll doesn't seem the least bit traumatized by his experience. In fact, he seems to be –”

“– enjoying himself. Indeed, he is leading those THRUSH Santas on a merry chase.”

They followed the walkway along the rink's perimeter, but it was slow going. The path was unshoveled, and the snow was already knee deep in places. Snow squelched inside Napoleon's boots, and his toes were growing numb. The hot shower he longed for seemed miles away.

By the time they reached the far side of the rink, Jellyroll and his pursuers had disappeared.

“Oh, great. Two crack UNCLE agents, and we've somehow managed to lose a twenty-five-pound Maine Coon Cat and four bumbling Santa Clauses on a deserted street in Manhattan. Could this night possibly get any better?”

“I would prefer not to speculate,” Illya replied shortly.

A fresh set of tracks led them back up Fifth, past the Museum of Modern Art, then across 52nd and down Avenue of the Americas. From there, the trail zigzagged back toward the Venezuelan Consulate, a Brooks Brothers clothing store and St. Patrick's Cathedral.

"I wish that cat of yours would make up his mind," Napoleon sighed. "At this rate, we'll be home for Christmas sometime around Easter.”

They turned the corner onto Park Avenue.

The Waldorf Astoria stood like a gleaming beacon on the silent, snow-covered street, its elegant Art Deco façade glittering with Christmas lights and holiday greenery. Tubs of poinsettias graced the entrance to the hotel, surrounding a display of twinkling stars and intricately carved glass reindeer.

A family stood under the hotel awning, the parents scolding their children for throwing snowballs at the Waldorf doorman.  The children hung their heads contritely, but the doorman waved off the incident with a ready smile. He brushed the splotches of snow from his uniform, and handed each child a candy cane. “Merry Christmas!”

 _Tourists, caught in town when the storm hit,_ Napoleon surmised. He hoped there would be room for them at the inn.

“Napoleon – in the poinsettias.”

Jellyroll's head was just visible, tucked behind a large red blossom. Illya scanned the surrounding buildings. “No sign of the Santas. He must have given them the slip.”

The family of tourists passed through the Waldorf's revolving doors, trailed by a bellboy pulling a brass luggage cart piled high with Louis Vuitton suitcases. As Napoleon and Illya watched, Jellyroll vaulted onto the cart, settled himself atop the mountain of luggage, and sailed into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, a feline Caesar entering Rome.

Napoleon allowed himself a brief, weary smile. “Come on, _tovarisch_. At least it'll be warm in there.”

*/*/*/

The lobby of the Waldorf Astoria was a Christmas wonderland. Garlands of greenery festooned the marble pillars, tied in place with coils of red velvet ribbon. A glittering tree stood in the center of the lobby, its thick branches decorated with red berries, German glass ornaments and gold pine cones.

The tourists had made their way to the front desk, and were arguing loudly with the desk clerk. “What do you _mean_ , 'no rooms available?' We _had_ reservations at the St. Regis, but their power is off and the generators aren't working. Imagine - a hundred dollars a night and no heat!”

“I'm so very sorry,” the clerk replied, positively oozing regret, “but we sold out weeks ago. You are, of course, welcome to wait in our restaurant with the other displaced persons.” He gestured toward _The Bull and Bear_ , already filled to capacity with travelers stranded by the storm.

The argument rambled on.

The luggage cart stood unattended beside the hotel's main elevator. Illya rifled through the heap of suitcases while Napoleon kept watch, but there was no sign of Jellyroll. The canny cat had vanished again.

Napoleon turned in a circle, hoping to spot telltale movement among the Christmas decorations and club chairs. “If you were a cat, where would you hide?”

Illya's eyes roved the vast, marbled lobby. Balconies and staircases flanked either side of the main concourse, their long, carpeted corridors branching out in all directions. A display of expensive jewelry glittered behind the plate glass window of the hotel gift shop. Discreet signs pointed guests toward the indoor pool, the Sassoon Hair Salon and _The Bull and Bear Steakhouse_. “There,” he pointed.

“The restaurant?”

“Jellyroll likes steak.”

 _The Bull and Bear_ was filled to overflowing with travelers – mostly businessmen stranded when the Long Island Railroad shut down, and tourists on day trips to see the Christmas lights. Every available table was full. Shopping bags and overcoats littered the floor.

To their credit, the Waldorf staff had done their best to see to the comfort of their unexpected guests. Extra seating had been brought in, along with pillows and blankets, and trays of sandwiches and hot coffee were being passed around by an army of white-gloved waiters. A baby grand piano stood in the far corner of the room, beside a buffet table brimming with little cakes and tarts. A huge sack of gaily wrapped gifts sat under the lounge Christmas tree, toys donated by hotel guests for children spending Christmas in the city's hospitals.

“There must be a hundred people in here,” Napoleon said. “It'll take ages to find him.”

They agreed to split up, with Illya taking the left side of the room and Napoleon, the right. People were remarkably courteous under the circumstances, shifting bags and briefcases to one side or the other to let them pass. Napoleon snatched a cup of hot coffee from a passing waiter, and sipped it gratefully as he circled the room. At one point, he caught sight of his partner beside the buffet table, inhaling a chicken salad sandwich.

The house pianist, a pretty brunette in white chiffon, took her seat at the baby grand, and began to play a selection of Christmas songs. Her slender fingers skimmed gracefully over the keys. Midway through _White Christmas_ , someone began to sing, and soon everyone was singing along. The mood in the room grew festive and cheerful.

Meow!

Illya tensed.

Mee-owwwwrr!

As Napoleon watched, Illya reached under the buffet table and, with a cry of delight, lifted Jellyroll into his arms. The cat was covered in gingerbread crumbs and smears of vanilla icing, but he seemed otherwise unaffected by his daring escapade. He nuzzled Illya, mewling in ecstasy, and buried his crumb-covered nose in Illya's golden hair.

 _Mission accomplished._ Napoleon thanked whatever gods were responsible for this evening being over. He reached for his communicator –

“Awright, youze people! Freeze!”

Four Santas stood at the entrance to the room, their laser rifles trained on the shocked crowd. The music faltered. Conversation ground to a halt.

“Well, well, if it ain't Napoleon Solo. Looks like we'll be gettin' a real nice Christmas bonus from THRUSH Central this year.” The Santas laughed.

Napoleon's exhausted mind went into overdrive. _They must have been watching us, waiting for us to tip our hand._ Now Innocents were in danger. He braced himself for battle _._

Across the room, Illya dropped to the ground, unobserved. He slid behind the Christmas tree, removed Jellyroll's collar, and hung it among the other ornaments. Then he lifted Jellyroll into the sack of toys, and cinched it shut. He crawled behind the buffet table, and activated the emergency beacon on his communicator.

“Da cat,” the head Santa snapped. “Where is it?”

“No idea what you're talking about,” Napoleon replied, stalling for time. “I came in here to get warm.”

The Santa pointed his weapon at the nearest table. Someone gasped, and was quickly hushed. Napoleon tensed.

“Anybody in here seen a cat? Now's yer chance ta speak up.” Heads shook vigorously. “Dere's a reward if ya seen him.” More head shaking.

The goon shrugged. “Woith a try.” He turned his weapon upon Napoleon. “Okay, Solo, listen, and listen good. We been out in dat blizzard for half da night, lookin' for dat mizzable critter. We're cold, an' we're tired. Give us da cat, Solo, or summbody's gonna git hoit.”

“Easy, there, tex.” Napoleon held his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. “No need to hurt any of these nice people. I don't know where the cat is, but you've got me, fair and square. THRUSH Central should be more than satisfied with an UNCLE CEA.”

The head goon chewed his lip, thinking. “Capturing da famous Napoleon Solo would be a feather in my cap – or I could give 'em you _and_ da cat. Yeah, dat's da ticket.” He turned to his minions. “Awright, boys, soich da place. Don't leave no stone untoined.”

The three Santas fanned out across the room, dumping bags and tossing coats aside as they searched for Jellyroll. Soon the carpet was littered with keys, wallets and sundry items of outerwear. The room was utterly silent.

“Hey boss,” called the tallest Santa, an unkempt fellow with an abundance of black stubble sticking out from under his beard. He pointed down at the sackful of toys. “Dere's sumpin' in dis bag here. I think it's wigglin'.”

“Well, open it, stupid! Jeez, do I have ta think of everything?”

He opened the sack, and leaned forward to look in.

Jellyroll erupted from the bag in an explosion of shredded wrapping paper, crushed gift boxes and assorted bows. His bared claws sank into the neck of the unfortunate THRUSH, and the man fell to the floor, screaming.

“Geddoffa me! Fer cripessake, geddoffa me!”

The pianist seized the rifle as it flew from his hands, and trained it on the phony Santa. “Don't move.”

Jellyroll planted himself atop the man's chest, digging in his claws and hissing his contempt. The man threw his hands up to protect his face from further assault.”Pleeze, lady, get this mizzable beast offa me.”

“I said, don't move.”

“Aw, lady, have a heart. it's Christmas Eve – nobody shoots Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.”

She smiled sweetly, and cocked the weapon. “Guess again, creep.”

As the second Santa charged to his colleague's rescue, Illya shoved the baby grand piano into motion. The heavy instrument rolled across the room, an eight-hundred-pound juggernaut that hit the goon in the back of the knees. He went down, cracked his head on the _sostenuto_ pedal, and was out like a light. A guest confiscated the man's weapon; his wife used the strap from her purse to bind his hands and feet.

A waiter caught the third Santa in the face with a tray of hot coffee, and a Marine on leave subdued the THRUSH leader in an impressive headlock. It was over in seconds. The room erupted in applause.

Moments later, an army of UNCLE agents swarmed through the hotel doors, led by Mark Slate. “I hear you've had a bit of excitement tonight,” he chuckled. “Thought I'd stop by and join the fun.”

“Glad to see you,” Napoleon replied earnestly. “It's been a very long, strange evening.”

Mark glanced down at the unconscious Santas. “So I see. Mr. Waverly wants to know, have you found the cat?”

“Here.” Illya stood, cradling Jellyroll in his arms. He handed Mark a red leather collar with a tiny gold bell. “I believe this is what THRUSH wanted so badly.”

“Well done, mate. Any idea what's in it?”

Illya shrugged. “I will leave that to our colleagues in Section III. Incidentally, it would be considerate of UNCLE to replace the sack of toys that were – inadvertently destroyed during the fracas. There are some hospitalized children waiting for their Christmas presents.”

“And there's a cabdriver over at New York Presbyterian who could stand to have his hospital bill paid,” Napoleon added. “After all, it's partly our fault the poor guy broke his arm.”

Mark grinned. “I'll see to it.” He turned to his men, and rattled off a series of instructions. “Okay guys, let's wrap it up.”

The Waldorf staff was already hard at work restoring _The Bull and Bear_ to a semblance of order. Decorations were straightened, and the piano rolled back into the corner. Waiters made the rounds with fresh pots of coffee and glasses of champagne, while the kitchen staff restocked the buffet table with juices and breakfast entrees. The enticing aroma of bacon and warm bread filled the air.

Napoleon glanced at his watch. _Midnight – Christmas morning._ He sank into the nearest club chair and closed his eyes. “Don't wake me until New Year's.”

Illya took the adjoining chair, and slung his feet across the coffee table. Jellyroll nestled himself upon his lap, purring. "Shh, little one. You have had a difficult night, but it is over now."

" _He's_ 'had a difficult night?' Seriously?!"

Illya's face fell. “I am sorry, Napoleon. I know this is not the Christmas celebration you had in mind.”

The senior agent shrugged, already half asleep. “Oh, well, there's always next year.” In his half-dream state, he imagined the sound of sleigh bells filling the air –

“Sir? _Sir?_ ”

He opened his eyes.

The Waldorf doorman stood before him, crisp and perfect as ever. "I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you, sir, but your ride is waiting.”

Napoleon blinked. "My...what?"

"Your _ride_ , sir."

“Ride?”

“ _Yes_ , sir. If you gentlemen will be good enough to follow me.”

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances. Illya shrugged. “Perhaps Santa has sent a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer to whisk us away home.”

“God, I hope not! I've seen enough Santa Clauses for one night.” Girding themselves against the biting cold, they followed the doorman outside.

An antique Albany sleigh waited at the curb, its green enameled chassis painted with a gold filigree of flying swans. Hitched to the front of the sleigh, a team of Belgians snorted, bells jingling as they pawed the ground in their impatience. Steam rose from their dappled coats.

“ _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l, mon neveu!”_  

Napoleon was fairly sure he was hallucinating. “Aunt Amy? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Why, rescuing you two, of course! Mr. Waverly tells me you're in need of a ride home.” She opened a delicate silver compact, primped a stray hair into place, and proceeded to apply fresh lipstick. "Goodness gracious! I'm a mess!"

Napoleon turned to his partner. “You see her too, right?”

Illya smiled. “A sleigh pulled by draft horses and driven by your maiden aunt? Difficult to miss.”

“Coming?" Aunt Amy chirped. "Unless you'd rather walk...”

The men needed no further invitation. They climbed aboard the sleigh, and wrapped themselves in piles of blissfully warm, thick blankets. Jellyroll burrowed his body between them, meowed his satisfaction with the accommodations, and settled in for a long winter's nap.

The snow was ending, storm clouds parting every now and then to reveal a star or two. The wind had died down, and the air was crisp and cold. Napoleon laid back against the plush velvet cushions and closed his eyes. “Ah, this is more like it! Merry Christmas, _tovarisch_.”

“Happy Christmas, Napoleon.”

Aunt Amy clucked her tongue, snapped the reins, and the sleigh slid away into the night, bells ringing in the Christmas morning as the snow softly fell.

*/*/*/

 

 


End file.
